


Sors Salutis

by viatorix



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blood and Gore, Explicit Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Murder, Rape/Non-con Elements, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 06:23:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3640086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viatorix/pseuds/viatorix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Cullen is captured by Venatori agents as he returns to Skyhold from Adamant, he realises that fate is against him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a kink meme prompt.

His capture had been accidental, there was no way they could have intelligently arranged the ambush that they did. At least, that is what Cullen told himself.

The victory at Adamant had been surmountable, and left a sweet tang on his tongue that complimented their success. The mourning he had felt at Adaar’s disappearance had been thankfully brief as the Tal Vashoth erupted through the veil, his companions and Hawke safe along with him. The Warden’s loss had been felt amongst his brethren, but honestly, Cullen hadn’t been able to find it in himself to care. The man he considered one of his greatest friends, perhaps edging on more, was safe and sound. That was all the victory he had truly needed.

The Inquisitor and he had parted ways then. Adaar had made for Skyhold, whilst Cullen stayed to arrange the troop movements back through Orlais and into the Frostbacks. Such a thing was no easy task, to be sure. Even with his many lieutenants and captains to help him, Cullen still retreated to his cot in the evening, exhausted to the white of his bones. Reports had to be written and letters had to be sent. By the time the forces were actually on the move through the Exalted Plains, it had been a month. He ached to get back to his bed in the gate tower, whether it still had a gaping hole in the rafters or not. A pint of ale would be welcome as well, even if he had to listen to one of Bull’s outrageous stories as he drank.

Cullen and a small contingent of soldiers rode out ahead of the central troops, winding through the grey, ashen hills and into the vibrant Emerald Graves. He had wanted to be at the head to make a show to his soldiers of leading the returning army and the boost to moral it would surely give, but mostly it meant getting back to Skyhold, and into that brightly lit courtyard with the granite chessboard just a little bit faster.

The Venatori had caught them on the edge of a ridge as they were about to dip down into the scenic valley below.

The force had been large enough to cut down his soldiers easily and Cullen was too far away from the rest of the Inquisition troops to send for help. His haste had betrayed them and their reward was a slaughter.

 Their leader, a large, brutish man, had recognised him immediately, calling him by name as Cullen had levelled his sword at him, face drenched in Tevene blood. The Commander had fought as well as he could, struck out with his blade as they crowded him against the cliff. His rebellion was short-lived. A strike with the flat of a sword against his head knocked him to onto his hands. A kick to his arm relieved him of his own blade. A rope around his neck made shadows edge at his vision and his fingers go limp.

Cullen had awoken in the back of wagon, chained to the side like a dog. Needles stung at his eyes, and his tongue felt like a lump of dead meat in his mouth. They had stripped him of his armour, leaving him only in his thick tunic and breeches. They had even taken his boots, and his bare feet were filthy: scraped raw from where they had dragged him from the bodies of his men to dump him in a cage that stunk of wood rot.

That had been almost two weeks ago.

Now, his prison was cold, mouldy stone. He shivered in his place against the wall. Cullen couldn’t tell exactly where they had taken him, but judging from the way his extremities numbed and gooseflesh prickled at his skin, it must be close to the mountains.

They had asked questions, but Cullen knew this game. He survived Kinloch, endured worse there and still did not break. He would not break now, to their hissed words and vacant promises. They did have a power that the demons had not though: they could touch him. The interrogator – a mousey middle aged woman – had grown tired of his silence. When he left her questions about his troops unanswered, she had backhanded him with a vicious swipe. The blow had been strong enough to make his ears ring and her little golden ring caught the soft flesh of his lip, splitting a line on its journey.

That had only been the start.

The woman had left the violence to her men after that, unwilling to let his lesser blood sully her hands. They had not been shy, nor had they taken pity. One of his eyes was swollen shut, and numerous bruises littered his body; a patchwork of royal blues and purples. His shoulders cramped from where his arms had been constantly wrenched and chained behind his back. With each time he tried to shift them, the searing pain in his hands reminded him that they had broken a finger and dislocated a few others.

Still, his mouth had remained sealed except for those few slips of pain. When it just became too much, Cullen recoiled in on himself and whispered the Chant of Light through the agony. The words did little to soothe him, but it was something to focus on in the damp dark.

With each passing day, his wish for rescue became a little more, and his hope that it would arrive became a little less.

He knew that it was just the paranoia of an idle mind, but the possibility that Adaar, that his _friends_ had abandoned him to his fate ate at his gut.

Did those long, quiet evenings together playing chess mean nothing?

Was the way Adaar had run a gentle finger over his jaw to be ignored?

With an ear pressed to the grate of the door, he had tried to listen for _anything_ that could hint that the Inquisition was on the hunt for its Commander. Surely they found the bodies of his men. Surely they found the countless Venatori he had run through whilst backed up upon that cliff. _Surely._ Yet, as he listened to the guards chatter, they said nothing about him. ‘ _The Inquisition is moving against Corypheus’. ‘The Elder One has turned his eye to the south’_. Interesting information that Cullen tucked away for later, but nothing that could give him a spark of hope. The candle was burning low in its wick and all Cullen had to show for it was fists full of wax.

Everyday had become a mantra of weariness, pain, and cold. With the little food they provided, the weight had shed from his body, even in the simple two weeks he had inhabited this place. When he shuffled against the biting stone, his collarbone, now standing out starkly against his skin, scraped along the grit. A press of his face against his shoulder told him that his cheeks had hollowed too. Cullen felt weak. He hadn’t tried, but he knew that if he attempted to stand, he would fail. If the Venatori carried on like this, then their prisoner would die of starvation long before he did of beatings.

He breathed deeply as he waited for his tormentors to return to his little room. Each pant was wet and when Cullen swallowed, he could taste foul copper coins. The elf boy had just left, done with his daily routine of bathing and shaving the Commander. The blood had been scrubbed from his face and hair and his nails had been painfully picked clean. Why the Venatori insisted on such a thing, he didn’t know. Perhaps the smell offended their delicate sensibilities. The boy was efficient and patient, even when he cleaned places that made Cullen flush with humiliation. He would not look him in the eye though, and when Cullen asked, _pleaded_ that he help push his fingers back into place, the servant (no, _slave_ ) just shook his head, picked up his little cloth and bucket, and closed the iron door behind him.

That same door opened now, an hour later. The woman entered, ever finely dressed, her hair pulled into a tight bun at the nap of her neck. Her arms were loose behind her as she lazily strolled over to where Cullen sat, back rod-straight against the stone. Her disinterest in him was present in the crease of her brow. He was an insect – a rebellious, cantankerous, and irritating insect – but an insect no less.

A large, heavyset man entered behind her. This one was new. His belly was thick and spilled slightly over his belt, but his arms were solidly built. A warrior then, if one that had gone to seed. The man’s face was plain and his hair a dull brown, lightly dusted with grey at the temples. He had eyes for his superior only, ignoring Cullen as the Commander watched him sullenly from his place on the floor.

A sudden pain, needle sharp spiked in his foot and with a yelp, he looked over to where the woman pressed the heel of her boot into the raised bone.

“You will tell us the locations of the Inquisition’s holdouts. You will also tell us where Inquisitor Adaar will next attack,” she said softly, getting straight to the point as per usual. The Tevene woman always spoke softly, never raising her voice even when Cullen could clearly see when she grew frustrated at his lack of obedience. “If you do not, this man here shall beat you. If you continue to be difficult, he will break more of your fingers, then your arm, and then he will press his boot into your leg until the bone snaps. Do you wish to become a cripple Commander Rutherford?”

She didn’t wait for his answer, not that he would have given one. The Venatori man moved further into the room, taking his place along the adjacent wall. He finally looked at Cullen now, and the interest in his eyes was something Cullen had seen before. A shudder ran through his body before he could stop it.

The woman hadn’t seemed to notice his sudden plight. “I have been patient with you so far, yet still you refuse me. You have not been executed, Commander, as it was wished upon your capture. Instead we have kept you, fed you, in hopes that some of that kindness would be returned.”

Inwardly Cullen scoffed. Yes, this whole imprisonment had been such a _kindness._ Cullen was tempted to spit at her feet, if that would not earn him a broken wrist. He had to reserve what strength he could, lest he be unable to escape when the opportunity presented itself, if there was to be further delay to his rescue.

“Well then? What say you?” she barked at him. She had released her heel from his foot, but remained where she stood, black robes tight about her neck. Cullen did not provide her with an answer, happy to simply glare from under his lashes.

She sighed at him like he was a petulant child that had been forced on her. “If it is your wish to be difficult…” she flicked her head toward the warrior who straighten from where he had relaxed against the brickwork. “Unchain his arms. If I remember correctly, a few of his fingers should be dislocated. Return them to their original position, and then dislocate them again,” she said, turning her back on him.

Cullen breathed heavily through his nose, bracing himself for the pain that was coming.

The man was not gentle as he forced Cullen forward and pulled his bound hands up to twist at the lock. The way he grabbed the shackles, wrenching them apart and shaking them for good measure had the Commander gritting his teeth. The chains were thrown away with a _clang_  while both his wrists were gripped in one hand. He could have pulled them free from the man’s grasp, could have curled his broken hand into a fist and connected it to a puffy cheek. The bone would have shattered under his knuckles. But Maker, Cullen was just so _tired._ He would wait, and endure till he was alone. Just like all the times before.

His arms were tugged forward, jerked into his lap as the man rounded on him and braced himself on his haunches over Cullen’s thighs. His legs must have been powerfully muscled, because he squatted there without complaint or movement, his burgeoning belly straining against his leathers where it sagged over the rim of his breeches.

He regarded him curiously has he held the Commander’s fingers in his calloused palms like Cullen was some dainty noble woman. It was the first time in a while that he had been able to inspect the damage done. Some of the fingers were fine, but the little one of his left hand was clearly broken – swollen and almost black in colour. His ring finger, and the index and middle fingers were all twisted out of their sockets. Cullen almost gagged at the sight. One had been bent fully around while the others were skewed at unnatural angles.

The Venatori focused on the ring finger first, pinching it between his own digits. The way he rubbed lightly at the skin was tender, almost intimate. And Cullen felt the shudder mounting in his throat again. That soon died as the grip became iron and the disjointed finger was forced back into its socket with a _crack._

Cullen locked his jaw and cried out through his gritted teeth.

It felt as if his hand had been forced into a pit of searing hot coals. Both of them shook with the pain that made his whole body tremble. The feebleness of his emancipated state fed the tremors, shaking the bones in his arms loose.

The man moved onto the next finger, completely unaffected by Cullen’s distress. When the Venatori was done with the third, there were tears stinging the corners of his eyes. He blinked them away. He could not show any more weakness than he had. Not when it wasn't yet over.

The warrior paused when Cullen’s middle finger clicked back into place. He stared at them, contemplating before looking over his shoulder at the woman who had been standing as silent as the Void.

“Mistress Amana.” His voice was for the most part surprisingly smooth, the gruffness of it could only be attributed to age. Cullen was just glad to be free of the man’s heady stare for a moment. It was all too evident that he took pleasure in the pain he inflicted and the power he had over his prisoner.

There was something else there too, so similar to looks he had received from eyes behind lavishly decorated masks.

“What is it?” the woman, Amana, spoke lowly, the displeasure in her tone like a whip.

“I could dislocate his fingers as you say, but I fear we would no proceed any further than we have.”

“Well then what do you suggest?”

The man’s gaze was back upon him and Cullen felt it crawling under his skin. Something in his gut told him what could come next.

_Oh Maker, please. Please don’t._

_Anything but this._

“There are ways that men of high command can effectively be… taken down a peg,” he stated matter-of-factly. Like what he was implying was just a whimsical feature of nature, and not a heinous crime. “It affects the moral, you see.”

“ _No…_ ” Cullen hadn’t used his voice properly in so long save for cries of pain, that the word came out as a croak. Panic had begun to buzz in his nerves, and the shaking that had previous been from pain quickly became due to something else.

Amana looked to him sharply, realisation dawning on her mousy face.

“It will get you what you want,” the man added. The final nail in the coffin.

“Do it, Crenus.”

Cullen ripped his hands from Crenus’ grip, ready to fight with what little strength he had. A knee to the man’s belly had him stumbling back on his arse, and Cullen quickly used the freedom to shuffle away. He tried to raise himself to his feet but the Venatori was on him like a bear; fully recovered from his brief setback.

A solid cuff to the temples had Cullen on the ground again and his head spinning.

_No, no, no!_

The panic was a full-blown thrum in his bones. He had to do something, find something to cut his wrist on, to bash his head against. He had survived Kinloch. He had endured salacious whispers, pledges of corrupted desire. He had not broken. _He would not be taken like this._

Hands grabbed the meat of his thighs and dragged him back from where he coiled in on himself in the corner, back to the wall. Cullen tried to buck, to kick out, but the large man settled himself on the Commander’s hind, bracketing and trapping the smaller man beneath him. When he tried to twist and buck again, Crenus simply chuckled at Cullen’s struggle and forced his head against the grit by the nape of his neck.

There was nothing he could do.

A hand was trapped underneath him and Crenus was far too heavy to dislodge from his seat. There, against the cleft of his arse, was the tell-tale sign of the man’s arousal. Cullen panted like a wounded deer, pliant beneath a haunch full of arrows. Part of him knew that it could come to this, but he had desperately refused to believe. He sent a small prayer for help that someone, _anyone,_ would come take him from this. Silence and fingers ripping down his threadbare breeches were his only answer.

As the Venatori gave a chortle and smoothed his palm over the bare arse beneath him, Cullen felt sick. There was little point in struggle any more, the man would just take what he wished, whether Cullen wanted it or not. That truth hurt more than all the wounds on his body. He just hoped that it would be over quickly.

Crenus back-pedalled an inch to pull at the laces of his own trousers and free his cock from the leather confines. He roughly angled the Commander hips up with the other hand and did not hesitate to line the thick rigid shaft up and press in without any preparation or fluid to ease his passage.

Agony ripped through Cullen, almost quite literally. He could feel the tight ring of muscle tear as the heavyset man thrust and he cried out: pain and dismay combined into one being. Mildew and iron were heavy on his tongue when his teeth bit into the dirt below. He could handle words; he could handle the beatings, and the starvation, but _this…_

Tears mixed with the soil against his cheek as he gasped.

‘ _Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow.’_

Cullen ran through the words in his mind over and over as Crenus took his pleasure. He could feel the power in his legs, the weight of the man’s belly on the small of his back with each thrust. Bile slipped into his mouth if he thought about that too hard, or about the blood that now ran freely between his legs, slicking the way. The humiliation in itself was almost too much to bear, especially when the man slapped his arse, his laughter ringing out in the little cell. When he was done, he gave it another slap for good measure as he unloaded his seed into Cullen with a groan.

The come was searing on his thighs as it dribbled out with the blood. Crenus pulled away, nonchalantly tucking himself back in his trousers as he retreated.

“Is he ready to be interrogated?” Amana’s voice was stained with a sneer. She had watched the whole thing in patient silence, and Maker, if that did not make Cullen’s shame burn hotter.

“No,” the man replied. “Let him stir in it for a while. His mind with do the most damage from now on.”

“But you said—“

“I am aware of what I said, but trust me in this, Amana. We will wait, and then,” He crouched down beside Cullen’s head, and threaded a hand through his hair, gently stroking the curls. The gesture was nauseatingly intimate. “And then we will let some of the men play with him. After that, and _only_ after that will we ask our questions. He will talk, I assure you.”

The cell door closed with a bang, and the two pairs of footsteps faded as they drifted off down the hall.

Cullen had no pride left to stop the quiet, hitching sobs that wracked him in the dark.

\--

The Venatori came every day after that, though Amana and Crenus were never together. Sometimes the woman would watch as her men took him, occasionally it was just one, but more often than not, she brought at least three. Other times she would just give them the key and let them have their fun. They would come at odd hours, in the dark of the night one time, high noon the next. It kept Cullen so exhausted that his mind did not even have the strength to conjure nightmares, and more importantly, it kept him pliant, unresisting. The small barred window of his cell was the only way the Commander could tell how much time had passed.

Most of the men were rough with him, pushing him onto his hands and knees to be taken like a Mabari bitch. The more gentle ones would have him on his back, legs spread wide like he was one of the Rose’s best whores. They would whisper as much to him, in their thick Tevene accents. _Such a pretty whore. Look at those pretty blond curls. I almost feel guilty for having your thighs around my waist for free._ He wanted to spit, to deck the man across the face, and gnash his teeth. But his hands would be held in a vice grip above his head unable to even twitch his mangled fingers, and eventually he just stopped trying.

When a few coppers were dropped near his head after they had their way with him, Cullen almost started to believe the words. Those days were always the worst.

Crenus would come back to see him frequently, and always alone.

The man would wait until the elf boy had cleaned up Cullen after he had been left to lick his wounds in the filth of blood and semen. Unlike the others who used the Commander as no more than a warm hole, Crenus would delightfully draw his torture out.

He could never quite be sure how the man would have him next – on his back, or his knees. His face pressed against the wall, or with Cullen straddled across his hips. He made good use of the shackles on those occasions: wrapping the chains around the iron rings attached to the wall. Cullen would be restrained enough so that he could only grasp the lapels of the man’s unbuttoned vest as the hands gripping his increasingly bony hips guided him to bounce on the Venatori’s cock.

Then, on one occasion when the shaft had scraped against a spot inside Cullen, a strangled moan had wrenched free from his throat. Betrayal and shame followed immediately after, as the thrust ignited the stirring interest of his own cock, which until then, had always remained flaccid.

Crenus had been pleased, Cullen had just wanted to vomit.

He had tried to kiss Cullen after he fucked him. That had only earned the man a bleeding lip and the blond a vicious backhand across the cheek.

Thoughts of suicide had crossed Cullen’s mind frequently as time passed, but he could never quite find it in himself to do it. The floor may have been too loamy to smash his skull against, but the walls were a thick, solid, stone. He had pressed his forehead against it one night, feeling the mortar dig into his brow until it pierced little holes in the skin. What was a few more cuts to add to the many that already littered his body? Not even the withdrawals bothered him anymore, the pain just blended with the rest. They all hurt far less that the wounds that gutted his mind.

One slam had sliced his hairline and made him see double. He blinked widely to clear his head enough to brace against the wall and try again, but instead the dizziness became so intense, he simply slumped against it, breathing heavily.

Maker, he couldn’t even kill himself.

Was this punishment for his past transgressions? Had the Maker abandoned him so absolutely?

What if… what if he truly deserved this?

At the thought of that, his fingers shook as he desperately covered his mouth to stop the cry of utter despair that bubbled in his throat. Was this to be retribution for all those mages whose plight he turned away from? He had never touched them as some of the other Templars had touched them, but he did nothing to stop it either. He had let Karras run loose and thought nothing of it. He saw the vice squeezing around the Circle’s neck and did nothing to relieve it. _They were not people,_ he had thought.

He had been wrong, he had been so wrong, but that didn’t matter to the Maker. The God would take his due. How fitting, how poetic that he would be at the mercy of the touches of _mages_. The tables had turned to such an appropriate brand of suffering.  And he could not release himself from it simply because he was not allowed to.

As his lower half settled into a steady rhythmic throb, Cullen took what little solace he could in the fact that even if he was unable to commit suicide, his captors would put a knife in his gut soon enough.


	2. Chapter 2

Samson was furious.

No, fury wasn’t quite the right word for the unadulterated _rage_ the man felt upon hearing the capture of Inquisition’s Commander by a small contingent of Venatori.

It had been a fluke of course. They were in the right place at the right time and had recognised the man in his small party ahead of the Inquisition’s main force. An act, which in his opinion, was stupidly careless of the Commander. They had taken him, overpowered him, and now he was at the mercy of a couple of _rats_ ; eager to use this opportunity to claw their way out of the sewers that contained them.

They had not told the upper rankings of their organisation of what they had done, they did not even know that Samson knew. A position that he had strongly wished to keep. The only reason that he did was because he had sent one of his scouts out to keep an eye on the group.

The woman, Amana, had been getting far too big for her boots for the General’s liking. She had begun to demand things of the Red Templars, whilst treating them as no more than southern savages. _‘Give me information,’ ‘give me supporting forces,’ ‘my men require supplies_ ,’ it never seemed to end. The higher ranks of the Venatori had wisely taken to ignoring her, and though he had never met her, the bitch grated on Samson’s nerves like nothing else. So, he had wanted her watched, better the rat you know, and all that. Even if they followed the Elder One equally, that certainly didn’t mean he trusted his allies. If one of them started trying to make waves, Samson wanted to know about it.

The disregard by her betters was most likely the reason she had sort an edge; a creature to use as a step for her boot so she could raise herself up among the rest of them.

That creature happened to be Cullen.

Amana had either wanted his execution, or his information. And as Samson had yet to be greeted with the man’s severed head on Corypheus’ war table, then evidently the bitch had kept him for his information. Something that she had, had weeks now to obtain. The General was under no pretences as to what had to be done, what _would_ be done to obtain it.

No, fury certainly wasn’t the right fucking word.

With the time it had taken to obtain their location in an abandoned fortress at the foot of the Frostbacks, relay messages to his scouts, and arrange his troops, too much time had passed for Samson’s liking. Immediately, he had ordered their departure, a heavy stone of something that wasn’t quite fear weighing in his gut. The Templars hadn’t questioned his drive, and he hadn’t been particularly inclined to divulge it. But now, finally, he and his soldiers marched, red lyrium thrumming through their veins, urging them south toward their enemy’s prison like hounds with a bloody scent.

_You shouldn’t be doing this, you bloody fool,_ a small, long thought discarded, reasonable part of himself said. _You’re not who you were and neither is he._ Samson told the voice to go piss in the Void. Opposite sides or not, he would be damned before he let Cullen die in hole. It was careless, it was crass but Samson didn’t give a shit. He was a careless and crass man.

The castle sat on a ridge in the high foothills, just below where it inclined sharply up toward the mountains. A half broken thing, but defensible; not that the Venatori were using it as such. Nor would they think that would be needed to be used to its bare minimum potential, at least not against the Templars thundering toward their doorstep.

All they needed to do was get in, and the two behemoth’s that the General had bought assured that it would happen. When it did, Samson would scour this castle red.

The first guard never saw the arrow coming.

It pierced his throat with a whistle and he only had time to jerk and gurgle before a red knight thrust his sword into the man’s belly, spilling his entrails across the shattered cobblestone. Shouts of alarm sounded distantly, immediately calling for the portcullis to be dropped on the Templars tearing through the courtyard, eviscerating anything with a beating heart. The great crystalline fist of a lumbering behemoth dashed any hopes the Tevene had of following the order when it was smashed into the crank that would release the gate, jamming the chains of the pulley. Painful groans slipped from the twisted metal but it held and now it would not fall.

The behemoth, Renor, gave a low screeching grunt of success which Samson echoed with a roar as he pulled his massive sword from its place at his back.

These bastards would have no escape from this.

Bloodlust had begun to tap a steady beat at the base of his spine. It bounced against the rage which flowed freely, empowered by the sanguine flush of lyrium that responded to his every wish and need. The combination of the insatiable _red_ pushed him onwards, through the rotten wooden doors and into the main hall. He didn’t pause to see the faces of those who attempted to push back against him, all Samson knew was that they fell beneath his blade and their brittle bones crunched under his bloody greaves.

He swept through the castle like a storm: the wind – a howl from his lips, his sword a lightning strike, and his heart playing the thunder – loud and booming in his ears.

Down into the depths of the cellars he went, through the dripping mess of tunnels. They curved this way and that, spindling out into darkness, but Samson kept strictly on the main pathway. There was little point veering off into these side passages. It was hard to believe that they would keep Cullen somewhere that it would take time to travel to. The Venatori never had been the most patient sort. The fact that they had left their northern comforts to squat in an abandoned castle was astounding in itself.

He gave a passing glance to the cells as he went, but most of them were open and empty. Yellow bones crumpled on the floor of a few, claimed by the moss that furred the stone. Samson prayed to whoever listening that he would not find some wearing Cullen’s face. A knight followed behind him, silent to her General’s wrath.

“Sir…”He barely heard the woman’s croak, but when he stopped to turn, he found her pointing down a hall that had a thick, grated door closed to the rest of the tunnels.

_There he is._ That must be it.

The lock was weak – rusted and worn by age. Enough so, that a quick and savage kick had the door screaming back on its hinges.

What Samson found within made part of him wish he hadn’t.

The man lying on the floor of the cell was skinny. Far too skinny. Samson knew that he, himself had lost weight, but compared to Cullen he was practically healthy. He could see the outline of his ribcage, where the cotton shirt had slipped down the Commander’s back, no longer able to fit comfortably on his shoulders. The knobs of his spine stood out starkly in the morning light, each one looking like it was attempting the pierce this skin and grow into spines akin to a creature of the Hissing Wastes.

Worryingly, Cullen hadn’t responded to Samson’s entrance, nor did he stir when the General crouched where he lay facing the wall.

Maker’s balls, what had they done to him?

Bruises and small half-healed cuts ran from the tips of his toes, curling around his calves to where they became hidden beneath fabric. A stain of blood on his upper thighs made Samson’s inspection stop cold. Though Cullen wore scraggly, threadbare trousers, a wound between his legs had made itself known on the cloth. The General’s hand hovered close, not enough to touch, but more reaching out in belated shock. The feeling didn’t stay long.

The rage that had cooled a shiver came back with a spike. They had taken the man, _mounted him_ like he was no better than a whore, in what, an attempt to break him? Looking at the state of him now, Samson feared it may have worked. He felt a wild roar bubbling in his throat, goading him to tear from the room and lay waste to the rest of the castle. But he didn’t. He couldn’t, not whilst Cullen still lay here like this, battered and broken. The need to take care of him was overwhelmingly powerful, and utterly something the General didn’t know he could feel. So he stayed, glued to the spot, and at the mercy of the man before him.

The dark haired man continued his inspection, wanting, _needing_ to see the rest of the damage.

Cullen’s hands were a patchwork of blue and purple, where they clawed the dirt off to the side. One finger was most certainly broken, while the others looked slightly bent out of shape as if they had been pushed around in their sockets. The vile sight made Samson hiss.

When he finally trailed back up to the man’s face, he found a pair of bewildered brown eyes staring up at him. The raspy croak that emerged from the man’s cracked lips almost made him jump.

“ _Sam_ …? Sam is that you?” Cullen’s dirty face was filled with such pure relief, that it was like a boot to Samson’s gut.

“Aye, it’s me, Cullen,” he kept his voice soft, gentle, and as comforting as he could manage whilst the rage still thundered through his veins. “Come to get you out of here.”

When that relief quickly mutated into confusion, and then _fear,_ a deep sense of shame settled on his shoulders. The broken Commander before him seemed to suddenly remember that they were no longer friends or almost lovers. They were enemies now, and to him, Samson was no different than the Venatori who had tortured him.

“I won’t hurt you _,”_ He assured as he brushed a gauntleted hand over the bruised cheek, and felt Cullen slowly relax against his palm. _“Promise_.”

He seemed to believe him. Either that, or he didn’t trust Samson at all and had just resigned himself to his fate.

_He would rip out that cunt’s throat._

The General didn’t know whether it was due to his lyrium induced strength, or the fact that Cullen had lost so much weight that it was all too easy to wrap an arm under his knees and curl the man against his chest. He was so light, it almost made Samson feel sick. Cullen didn’t resist, just slid his eyes close and breathed deep, becoming boneless in Samson’s arms. Panic licked at his throat for a second, before he spied the unsteady rise and fall of the blond’s chest. Not dead thankfully, just unconscious. He must have been exhausted.

The knight stepped back from her position at the door, her eyes full of pity as she looked to the man in his arms; his face pressed to the underside of Samson’s jaw. They trailed wordlessly back the way they came, through the dungeon and up the winding stairs to a long strip of hall that mostly seemed to have been used for storage.

Now that they bloodlust had been sated for the moment, he could actually think and examine his surroundings with a relatively clear head. Men that he didn’t remember cutting down lay gutted on the floor by the entrance to the cellars. Their sightless eyes stared at the ceiling in unabashed horror; mouths open wide. He had to carefully step around the severed lower half of one lest he slip and fall in the blood and organs that sprayed the stone. The regret that may have filled a normal soldier didn’t come.

Retracing his steps through the castle found him more bodies, and some of his own men: done with the slaughter and now taking the time to clean the gore off their swords or loot the corpses for anything of interest. They watched him as he passed, the goal of their mission secured tightly in his grip. Nothing was muttered, and nothing was said, against the fact that it was the _Inquisition’s_ Commander that was held like a bride in his arms. Pride at his men welled in Samson’s gut at that.

A few Templars trailed out into the courtyard after him, awaiting his orders. There were many more bodies out here, and not all of them clothed in the usual Venatori dress. The closest one – an elf boy – sat against the stone wall, his head hung low, and a hand clutching his belly. A slave, then.

Samson didn’t have time to feel guilt at his death.

“Paxley,” he barked, swinging around to face the man. “Get me a blanket – no, get me two. Quickly as you can.” The man jogged away, and hastily returned with two thick woollen blankets from somewhere beyond the great hall. He had another knight drag a few bales of hay over from where they were stored against the wall. They would be wet, but they would have to do.

He had Paxley throw one of the blankets across the bales before he set Cullen down on them as gently as he could, laying the second blanket on top. The man gave a breathy groan, even unconscious as he was. No doubt that the almost furnace level of heat Samson produced was a comforting change from his previously frigid cell.

The full light of day revealed new wounds and a gauntness to Cullen’s face that Samson hadn’t seen before. Tiny pinpricks of dried blood littered his brow, like it had been pressed against something small and sharp. They coalesced into a nasty black bruise on his scalp line, extending underneath the limp strands. Unwashed and unstyled, Samson had never seen Cullen’s hair this way before. It curled around his fingers as he threaded a hand through it, softly stroking the wheat coloured length. The man seemed to relax under his touch, his breathing becoming less hitched and more steady.

“General Samson,” an archer spoke as he stepped up to Samson’s side.

Samson gave a grunt. “What is it?”

“It’s Amana, sir. She has barricaded herself in the upper quarters. We were going to attempt to break through, but wished for your permission first.”

So Amana was here after all, and not just having others do her dirty work for her in the mountains. No, that wasn’t right. She probably _did_ have others doing her work for her, she just saw herself fit to watch the proceedings and extract information at her leisure. Something that she would come to regret very shortly.

Samson didn’t need bloodlust or rage for this, something far colder would do.

He stood from where he had been crouched at Cullen’s side, revelling in the clicks and clinks of his armour settling into place.

“Leave her,” he growled, waving for his sword to be carried back to him. The knight that had followed him down to the dungeon passed it back and he gripped the hilt lovingly, shifting his stance so that he could balance it in one hand. “The bitch is mine.”

The archer nodded and stepped away to join the Templars that had gathered in the courtyard, curious about the man who slept on the bales. Unfortunately, dealing with Amana would mean having to leave Cullen for a moment. Samson trusted his men, he did, but the thought of leaving the man with anyone, as fragile and frail as he was, left a sour taste in his mouth.

“I want it understood,” he said, raising his voice to addressing the men, “that if _anyone_ touches Rutherford _at all_ , there will be dire consequences. _Am. I. Clear?”_

A chorus of agreement sounded throughout the yard, supported by most with rigid salutes. Even if that put Samson a little at ease, it did not make him feel totally comfortable.

“Renor!” He called to the behemoth, standing idly by the heavy gate. The giant crystalline man lumbered over slowly, each step echoed by a grunting wheeze. When he finally made it over to Samson’s side, he gurgled a sound comparable to grinding glass.

The General took that as good a sign as any that the man acknowledged his order. “I want you to stay by Cull—Rutherford’s side. Anyone comes close, you start swinging, understand?” Renor gave another gurgle and Samson patted the large shard on his arm. “Good man.”

He took the route to the upper rooms languorously, stopping to inspect some of the ripped tapestries on the way.

Let Amana stir in her frantic panic. He was more than happy to drag it out. They both knew that she wasn’t going to get out of this fortress alive. The woman probably knew by now that the Red General himself had been the one to come knocking on her door, both figuratively, and, as he trudged up the last staircase, quite literally.

Old tables and a few stools had been haphazardly thrown across the hallway that lead to a decorated door. Samson picked his way around them lazily, shifting a few of the more annoying ones out of the way with the tip of his boot. Bits of broken pottery crunched underfoot as he made his way down. It looked like Amana had attempted to liven the place up, before she inevitably destroyed it all in her haste to hide herself away.

When he rattled the doorknob, he found out two things. One: that the door was barred from the other side. And two: judging by the loud whimper that sounded from within, Amana was most definitely inside that room.

Samson inched back and unstrapped the sword from his shoulder. Just as Cullen’s cell door had given, so too did this door when his foot connected with the panel just under the knob, splintering as it flew open.

A scream filled the room as the door banged loudly against the adjacent wall. There, pressed against her bedpost, was Amana, her ratty face twisted in fear.

“Please General Samson,” she lunged across the floorboards to her knees, begging. She certainly did not waste time in lowering herself. “I did not know that you wanted Commander Rutherford. If I had, I-I would have handed the man over immediately. I _assure_ you.” Amana spoke quickly, and stumbled over her words – reducing most of them to gibberish. The Tevene woman had probably never had to speak so fast in her life, nor defend it.

When he didn’t respond, she thrust her open palms in front of her, like she offered all her coin and jewels before a thief. “ _Please,_ Ser! We are allies!”

Samson smiled, and gently closed the door behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

As the bleary tendrils of sleep unfurled from Cullen mind, he noticed that he was warm.

It was heavy; not quite suffocating, but very nearly. The dull aches and pains were still there, though they were muted under coolness that brushed his face and the gradual quickening of his heart as more and more feeling came back in waves.

He shouldn’t be warm. He should be shivering and not quite cold. His cheek should be pressed against compacted grime and dirt, not a softness that smelt of wood smoke and sword oil. He should feel the press of sharp stones into his side, not the caress of silky fur that made him want to bury himself deeper within the strands. But what _should_ have been didn’t match to the reality, not even close. From what Cullen could tell without opening his eyes, he wasn’t in his dank little cell anymore.

And that terrified him.

Was this a new tactic of Amana’s to get him to break? Had Crenus decided to make Cullen his whore full time? The man had promised as much in his last visit when he had Cullen on his back with his legs wrapped around the Venatori’s bulging waistline. The quick kiss on his cheek had been an assurance that things would be different once he returned from his trip in the north.

Crenus had grown jealous of others having him; he never said it, but Cullen had seen the way his lips pursed and twisted as he watched the elf boy clean between the Commander’s legs.He had been the one to sanction his men’s actions, yet only now he was coming to regret it? Cullen had felt nothing but disgust, even if that like so many things these days, had become numbed. Disparate then, that the terror he felt now was alive and scratching at his throat.

If this was indeed a bed, then Crenus had gotten his wish.

The light stung his eyes when he opened them, blinking harshly. Beams of it seeped through the rafters from the long cracks that almost ran the length of the cavernous roof. Snowflakes, soft and white, drifted down from the bruised sky lazily, catching on the wood and soaking into the pickings of moss that clung to the sides. It was hard to believe that the Venatori man would allow himself to remain in such an abused room, but perhaps that was because this one wasn’t his at all. The keep they haunted probably had many unoccupied chambers like this one. An appropriate room to reflect its patron.

When Cullen shuffled, he found that the almost suffocating warmth he felt was caused by the numerous amount of furs that had been layered on top of him. A mass of stitched wolf pelts with a winter fox added in here and there to bind them altogether. The workmanship was poor, but that result would serve its purpose well enough. Why provide a fully downy feathered duvet, when kills from the wild would suffice? Another piece of finery refused to him.

Pushing the furs aside was easier said than done, even if Cullen felt a little stronger than he had the last time he had been awake. Death felt close then, like a hand clutching his shoulder. When it felt like the end, the person that appeared to him was one utterly unexpected, though for the life of him, Cullen couldn’t quite remember who it was. All he had known was relief, then fear, then nothing at all.

Only, it didn’t matter now, did it? His death had been unfairly snatched out from under him. Like so many things.

He was fairly certain he was alive, however unfortunate that was. Breaching his hands from under the covers only confirmed it. The bruising had turned from black and purple to a rusty brown. Although the fingers were back in their sockets, the thin sinew around them was damaged, making them look bent slightly out of place. Better, but still utterly a mess.

Curiously though, a thick trapping of white caught Cullen’s attention. His smallest digit, the one that had been broken – was wrapped securely to the one next to it. Someone had taken the time to set his finger. Why would the Venatori do such a thing when they had never bothered before? He prodded the question for an answer, but when it gave nothing, he pushed it from his mind, and pressed a shaky hand forward to pull the rest of his bedding off. Grunting with the effort, the wolves finally relented and rolled in on themselves, releasing Cullen from their breast.

Even though time had been taken to place him in the bed and wrap him in furs, whoever had placed him there hadn’t bothered with changing his clothes. He still wore the dirty, threadbare tunic and breeches, the ones slightly sullied with his own blood. The fact that they hadn’t touched him, hadn’t stripped him bare to see what he had become, gave Cullen a small degree of comfort. He should been used to such a thing by now, but the thought of someone touching him in those delicate places still made him shiver.

More surprising, was the bowl of stew that sat on the nightstand.

Cloves, soaked onion rings, and an unidentifiable meat floated in a pale broth; greasy with the fat stripped from the flesh. The fact that steam didn’t waft from the meal meant that it had been sitting there for some time and had long since cooled. Hunger had been with Cullen for so long, that he barely recognised the rumbling gurgle in his gut now. The hand that reached for the spoon that sat beside the food was hesitant.

It wouldn’t be poisoned, would it? Why go to all this trouble of moving him, only to poison him now with food? Perhaps it was an attempt to lure him into a false sense of security. Nevertheless, he curled his fingers around the wooden instrumental so he could quieten the beast in his stomach. Cullen would need all the strength he was granted.

Only, his fingers wouldn’t curl.

They stopped halfway, like he clutched an invisible force that wouldn’t allow him to tighten any further. Weakly forcing the digits only brought pain, and he hissed between his teeth.

Maker, they had practically destroyed his hands.

How was he supposed to grip a sword, if he could not even grip a fucking _spoon?_ How long would it be until he could do so again, if he ever could at all? Cullen almost cried out in despair. He had been practically reduced to a _child._ One that couldn’t even eat properly on its own.

Frustrated, he knocked the utensil aside. Even if he could not function like a civilised being, he would not let that stop him from eating _something._ The bowl itself was much easier to hold in his cupped palms. As he had foreseen, the broth was as cool as the chamber, but still had a modicum of taste to it. The beef (or at least he had decided it was beef) felt foreign on his tongue. Mixed with the sting of onion and the tang of cloves, it was… nice. Cullen could hardly remember the last full meal he had that wasn’t a stale piece of bread that barely filled the size of his palm; his one pathetic slice of food that was to be washed down with metallic water.

The stew was heady enough that he couldn’t finish it all; his belly easily full after so long of being empty. Cullen had managed two-thirds of it, though – a small victory in the face of defeat.

Putting the bowl to the side, he swivelled to sit on the edge of the mattress, looking around to inspect his lodging. It was a quaint room; not overly big, but certainly enough to deem it as the bedroom of a noble, though it was doubtful that any of the sort would want to inhabit it in its current state.

The furniture pressed against the walls were covered in thick sheets of cloth, obscuring all but their shape. The material was heavy and damp, soaked through by the weather that crept in through the rafters. The floorboards fared no better: rotten in places and just plain missing in others. They held, nonetheless, taking the strain of finery that had eroded from exposure.

The coolness of the room had Cullen shivering slightly, but it was not enough to staunch his curiosity and flee back to his furs. With unsteady, weak, and ill-used legs, he stood; clutching the mattress for support when his knees shook with the strain. How long had it been since he had simply stood upright? The muscles in his legs seemed to barely remember. The steps he took were jerky, and he feared if he let go of his bearer then his thighs would fold from under him, leaving him to crawl along the floor. The thought of being reduced even more to a child-like state sickened him further, so Cullen persisted with a stubborn determination.

The more steps he took, the more his legs seemed to remember how to take them. He moved about the room, having to lean and lunge occasionally to find the next crutch to rest against. The cloth covered furniture didn’t do well in that respect, and he had to shed the dressers and curved racks of their clothing to be able to hold on to their nakedness.

When he pulled the fabric away from a tall circular object, Cullen stumbled in fright.

A man suddenly appeared before him, his features tight and terrified. His face was gaunt, the skin stretched over his skull like a poorly fitted mask. The hollows of his eyes were so sunken in, the flesh under his eyes was bordering on _black;_ a stark contrast to the almost translucent paleness of the rest of the man’s face. His lips were chapped and cracked, the surface peeling slightly. In the light that streamed through the ceiling they looked as if they had been rubbed with sandpaper, or pressed against gritty stone until the flesh was scraped raw. The hair that framed the skeletal face was stringy and limp; something that could have been wheat coloured once but had turned a golden brown in the grime that matted the strands. All in all, the man looked like death incarnate. Or at least a creature that belonged in the dark caverns of the Deep Roads.

Only when he saw the man blink, did Cullen realise that man was _him._

He raised a shaky hand to his face and saw his action perfectly mirrored. Cullen pressed his miscoloured fingers into the place his cheeks should have been and watched with sick fascination as the skin was pushed upward, drawing the corner of his lips away from his teeth. The gums within looked red and irritated, and the soft scrape of the pad of his thumb confirmed as much when it swiped over the surface.

The hand trailed along his sharp jaw, scratching at the stubble there before moving to cup the thin, delicate neck. A bulging adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, feeling like a ball of bone against the muscles of his throat that were thrown into sharp relief in the light. He paused as his spidery fingers traced the thick collarbone at the base. The tunic, though baggy and loose, meant that he couldn’t see much more past a bony shoulder that had been revealed as the shirt had slipped off his frame.

Cullen had to see _more._ He had to see this thing, this _creature_ he had transformed into. So achingly different from the broadly muscled Commander that had stared back at him mere weeks before. The thing before him now was a pathetic shadow; weak and useless. A being that could not even defend itself when its honour had been taken and stripped.

It was easy to pinch the fabric between his fingers and pull to revealed the full extent of the damage.

Muscle still clung desperately to his chest, though there was little of it. His belly was hollowed and withdrawn, looking like it had attempted to retreat into his ribs which stood out starkly against his skin. Cullen ran his fingers across them, pressing into the crevice of each one. The sinew that had layered them, as tough as stone, was gone – reaped for the sustenance the Venatori had refused him.

It wasn’t enough, Cullen needed to see yet more still. He pulled at the laces of his breeches more out of habit than necessity, as the trousers barely clung to his hips anyhow. A rough knocking at the door startled him enough to halt, heart suddenly stuck in his throat.

Whoever was on the other side didn’t wait for his answer, and instead swung the door open, tearing a groan from the rusted hinges.

Cullen’s spine stood rod-straight in the face of the man that entered, too busy manoeuvring a bucket through the door frame to notice the blond standing in front of the mirror. Maker, what in the name of Andraste was _he_ doing here. Was he working with the Venatori who had taken him? Neither Amana nor Crenus had mentioned the Red General, though neither of them had been particularly inclined to share anything with Cullen anyway.

Water sloshed in the pail and Samson cursed as some of it spilled on his plain breeches. Cullen didn’t understand, why would Samson of all people be bringing him water? Such a thing should be beneath the man. Unless his position had changed in the past few weeks? He couldn’t see that being so, Samson was far too proud to be reduced to a slave willingly.

As morning light caught the lines of the man’s face, and Cullen had to stop himself from gasping.

He remembered whose face it was he had seen in his cell, so seemingly out of place. It had been _Samson._ It had been he who crouched beside him, his features barely restraining the thunder that crackled underneath. Cullen had thought for a moment, a short precious moment, that it was the old Samson, the one that used to wake him when the nightmares squeezed too tightly. The Sam with a perpetual crooked smirk on his face. The Sam that had pressed him into his cot one night to kiss him. Not the one that had disappeared in the dark, only to show up a decade later clad in black iron atop a snowy hill pulsing with a tainted _red._ Onlywhen he looked into those bloodshot eyes, he did he realise that it _wasn’t_ his Sam, but the man who had replaced him; a parody of the original. It had been too much, and Cullen was simply far too tired to resist whatever the man had in store. The last thing he could faintly recall was the feeling of arms cradling him against a warm body before the blackness took him.

Those had been _his_ arms.

When Cullen opened his mouth, he fully intended to demand answers, but his voice, worn from disuse worked against him. “Samson?” He croaked, painfully. “what are you… _doing_ here?”

Samson’s head shot up to stare at the blond. Cullen knew he must look pitiful: a skinny, bowed creature, with a dirty tunic clutched loosely between its bony fingers. The man’s eyes inspected as much as they dragged down his form. What caught Cullen off guard, was how _angry_ Samson looked by the time he finished. His brows were thickly knotted and his lips had twisted into what could have been a snarl if he allowed himself to bare his teeth.

“Where is Amana?” Cullen continued, clearing his throat to relieve some of the dryness.

“She’s dead.” The reply was rasped, yet layered in a violent satisfaction. And it did nothing but increase Cullen’s confusion.

“Who killed her?” _Who will replace her? Is it you?_

Samson pushed further into the room and placed his bucket off to the side, throwing down the rag he had brought beside it. When he approached Cullen, it was like he was drawing near a skittish horse, so uncharacteristically different from the careless and brash man who had marched on Haven, who had smiled at him with wide, pale lips. His face was cautious now, still rooted with anger, but remarkably, Cullen realised that anger wasn’t at him, but _for_ him.

“I did,” Samson said, and it was _proud._ Like a wolf who had brought down the hart all by itself.

Cullen gaped, completely at a loss. Samson killed Amana. But how? Why? The woman kept countless guards around her like a barrier. Someone was always with her, always by her side or trailing behind like a trained dog. For Samson to kill her meant that her lackeys would have been buried along with her. Cullen didn’t want to hope, it was too soon. He didn’t have enough information but _oh—_

“Why?” he asked breathlessly.

 “To get you out.” And there it was. Said so simply that all of Cullen’s weak determination and false bravado left him with a _whoosh._ He ran a hand through his hair, grimacing as it caught the oily strands. One of his tormentors was dead, her blood scrubbed from the hands of the man standing before him, and the other was somewhere else, hopefully far from here. Samson had saved him. Samson had killed, no, _slaughtered_ a few, or many of his own allies to get Cullen out of that grimy, cold cell.

_Why?_

The word still weighed heavily on his tongue, biting at the buds. He wanted to choke it out again; hang it in the air like doing so would provide him with absolute clarity. Yet, his lips stiffened around it, moulding his voice into a different fear.

“Am I your prisoner?”

Samson looked like Cullen had slapped him – affronted and slightly confused. He opened his mouth to say something but thought the better of it, and closed it to scratch at his chin. It took him a moment to consider his words. They were still gruff, stony, and laced with an undercurrent animosity, and yet even then Cullen didn’t feel like he had to back away in an effort to preserve himself.

“No, Cullen, but—“ he rolled his jaw and wet his lips, before trying again. “When we found you, I thought you were dead. You would have been too in a few more days, a week at most. I marched on that blighted place as soon as I heard they had you.”

“I am your enemy, Samson,” Cullen stated. He felt like he needed to. Remind them of where the both stood and the distance between them.

And it hadn’t been on the same side for a long time.

Samson’s raw, red eyes bore into him, fierce and unapologetic. “I don’t give a shit about that, Cullen. ‘Couldn’t let you suffer like that and not do anything.”

He bent down to pick up his abandoned rag, thinking the better of leaving it. The dark haired man turned and twisted it a few times, pulling at the scrap of cloth before dipping it into the water to swirl it around.

“What about the Inquisition?” Cullen murmured. If anyone would know about the Inquisition’s movements, it was Samson. Surely, Adaar would have been on the hunt as soon as his Commander was reported missing. Surely he would have—

“What about them? I kept an ear out, to hear if they had any idea where you were.” Samson shook his head. “Didn’t hear shit. Oh, the Inquisitor raised a stint about his Commander going missing for sure, but that was the end of it. They got someone else running the army now. The Seeker woman.”

“But surely they would have sent agents. Spies. _Soldiers_ , even,” Cullen protested, suddenly desperate. He stumbled more than walked the few steps to where the General sat on his haunches before the pail.

The man looked up at him, lightly shaking his head again. “They left you. If I hadn’t come to kill that bitch, you’d be dead. Or maybe you wouldn’t’ve. Maybe they would have figured out that raping and starving their prisoner to death isn’t the brightest idea.” He ground those last few words out like they didn’t even deserve to be on his tongue.

Cullen flinched at the sound of the word. _Rape._ That is what they had done. He hadn’t thought of the word, not in the whole time he spent in that cage. Refused to. Thinking about it, _acknowledging_ it for what it was felt as if life was breathed into the act, while simultaneously stealing his own. Not giving it that opportunity somehow made it feel less real, as childish as that was. Not much different than covering his hands over his eyes and thinking himself invisible. Only it had happened, had existed. All Samson did was give it its proper name. Even the marrow in his bones seemed to recoil and tremor at the obscenity.

“Fuck the blighted _Inquisition_ ,” Samson continued, heedless of Cullen’s silence. “ _I_ came for you, Cullen. Me. And I would bloody do it again, too.” He rung out the rag in disgust and stood, turning back to where the blond now stood, not a foot away, absolutely still.

The Inquisition had not come. Had not even tried to come to rescue him.

The rescue he had wished for, _prayed_ for had been no more than a hapless dream of warm courtyards and little white chess pieces.

Cullen’s despair must have coloured his face, because Samson softened, hissing out a sigh through his teeth.

“Look, I bought the bucket to clean you up. ‘Didn’t let anyone touch you when we got you out. Not in the wagon we bought you back here in either. ‘Didn’t think you’d appreciate that. The cuts on your back and _other_ places could get infected though. They need to be cleaned.”

_Wounds?_ Cullen couldn’t even feel them. He dropped the ratty tunic to smooth his fingertips over one of his shoulders. A prickle of pain responded to his prodding, but even that felt faint to the haze that had descended over his mind. He stood there feeling at it long enough that Samson had inched closer.

“Come on,” he said, startling Cullen. When the man moved to perch on the edge of the bed, the blond moved unfeelingly, almost automatically to join him. The light dabbing at his back attempted to be gentle, but Samson wasn’t a gentle man, and it showed. Cullen took all the accidental scrapes without complaint, another matter weighing far more heavily on his mind.

“Done,” Samson said candidly a while later, tossing the blood tinged rag into the bucket. “I’ll leave you to… get the other bits. There’s some clothes on the table over there. Mine, but they shouldn’t be too bad.”

He left Cullen perched on the bed, smoothing his patchwork fingers through one of the soft pelts, and trying to chase away the haze that felt too much like betrayal. Even in their silence, the wolves were comforting and protecting. Yet, these beasts may keep him safe from the cold that streamed in through the rafters, but even they could not protect Cullen from his own mind.

He was reminded of the fear he felt upon waking, bottomless amongst the fresh ache. The thought that he had still been captured, still been a _pet_ of the Venatori tasted of ash and grit. The fact that he could make that mistake again, and again; every time he woke up made Cullen want to retch. Maker, he couldn’t do it. He would rather Samson take a knife to his throat than to be cowed by the wretched _fear_

“Sam—Samson,” he blurted, making the man pause in the doorway. “Stay. With me. Tonight. I can’t—“ _I can’t do that again. I can’t be terrified. I can’t do it alone._

“I can’t wake up thinking that I’m still…” He blew out a breath. The thought that he must seem like a weak, teary-eyed waif was not lost on him. “ _Please,”_ he finished, burying his hands as far into the wolf’s fur as they would go.

Samson looked at him pensively, his eyes flickering to the bed before returning to Cullen, pursing his lips as he did so. A lurch pulled at the blond’s stomach. What a stupid thing to ask. The man must think him weak willed; a shadow of his former self. Unrecognisable, in a thousand different ways. Perhaps it was something they had in common.

However, to his relief, Samson nodded, the minuscule tilt practically invisible, but there nonetheless.

“Yeah. Yeah, alright.”

\--

The light had long since vanished from the overhang of tinny clouds when Samson entered his room again. A fire was burning low, had been since a kindly woman – outwardly free of any trace of tiny red crystals – had come to take away his cold stew and give him another. Pork, she had said when he looked at her curiously (warily. Suspiciously), her thick Orlesian accent twisting the word. She had kept as far away from him as possible, all but edging around the room to give him a wide berth. After stoking the fire at the far end of the chamber, she had left, retrieving the bucket, and taking his sullied, tattered clothing with her. Save for the wounds on his body and in his head, the last physical evidence of Amana and her ilk had left him. The relief was almost visceral.

After cleaning himself and ridding himself of filth and grime, Cullen had spent the rest of the day taking more steps and exploring the room, eventually retreating to his furs when he grew too tired to do anything but watch the flames flicker and dance. He had been drifting in and out of sleep, his back to the doorway when Samson trudged in with a weary sigh and heavy boots. The blond relaxed, evened out his breath in a bid to appear asleep as he listened. The bed dipped as the man shed himself of his shirt with a rustle of fabric, his boots following shortly after. Cullen’s wolves strained a little as the other man pulled at them to withdraw under their breast, softly humming his ease as he went.

There was a pause, then shuffle, and Cullen felt the warmth of a gaze tickling over the nape of his neck. He didn’t move as it glided from his freshly washed curls, down to the arch of his spine, quietly contemplative. The effort to keep his breathing even became a strain as possibilities made themselves known in his mind, plucking at the worn, aching strings.

_Don’t, don’t, please don’t. Please don’t._

The heat of a hand hovered at his shoulder, the pressure of it splitting the space between them. However, before long it retreated; taking Samson with it.

The man did not try to move close and tuck himself into Cullen’s back, not even a little. He simply stayed as far away as possible at the other end, quietening until Cullen could hear no more than soft wisps of breath under the popping crackle of the fire.


	4. Chapter 4

The next few weeks became a routine.

Cullen would wake before Samson, and more times than not, pretend to sleep as the man pulled on his clothes and boots before he retreated down the hall, to his own room. He felt that heavy gaze linger on him longer as the days passed, but the General never said anything about it. A hand brushed over the protecting pelts a time or two, but it did not slip under to heat his skin, even if in some moments, (tiny, small, fleeting things) Cullen wished it would curl into the soft length of hair to stroke the strands at the base of his neck.

In those few occasions that Cullen _would_ make himself known, the conversation was normally short, and distant; moreso on his part than Samson’s.

With regular food coming, so did some weight, albeit slowly. Though his body was still worryingly thin, he no longer looked to be quite so skeletal and on death’s door; ready to keel over at any given moment. Neither did Cullen feel quite so hollow, even if Samson’s clothing hung loose on his bony frame, constantly demanding that he right his tunic so that the neckline did not try to escape down the lines of his shoulders. Even at the best of times he seemed swamped in cloth, like a child parading around in his father’s shirts.

The possibility that Cullen may never regain his old form and the years of training that he had lost, was a painfully real one. Even though that thought cracked like a whip between his shoulders, he took what little solace he could in the fact that he now walked without aid, and was no longer quite so tired before the sun had a chance to sink below the horizon.

With eating came the problem of his hands – something that frustrated Cullen to no end. Even with the eventual fading of rusted, rotten brown into something more familiar; for the most part, his fingers still resisted his command. Holding small instrumentals, or doing anything that called on him to make a fist was nigh impossible. He had tried once, becoming so infuriated at the lack of progress, that he had pushed, and clenched with all of his might, his hands held out in front of him like swords. That invisible force had fought him the entire time, setting fire to the joints when it saw he would not relent in their struggle. Cullen had cried out at the burn that split through his fingers, trailing heat and flames up his arms. They seared brightly for days afterwards, as he lay beneath his furs and clutching the shaking hands to his chest.

From then on, he was not quite so rough with them, yet still he would spend hours just clenching and unclenching the digits as far as they would go, each day hoping that they would curl that little bit further.

Samson had come to be absent for most of the day, leaving Cullen to his own devices. A thing which eventually lead him beyond the creaky door of his room. It was not locked, like he had suspected, had been utterly sure it would, though the creature he found beyond was an unfortunate surprise.

A behemoth, nine feet tall, yet still dwarfed by the high vaulted ceiling of the foyer, stood outside Cullen’s door like a great, bloody crystalline statue. Its head had twisted, the sound of cracking glass, to turn its glowing eyes on Cullen as he closed the door behind him. The blond had inhaled sharply at the sight, stumbling across the hallway to put as much distance between them as possible, pressing himself against the brickwork while his heart thundered in his chest.

The behemoth grunted something, or at least tried to. It had sounded more like grinding stones than any human noise. When it seemed to realise that Cullen still regarded it warily, it heaved its colossal fragmented arm up and shuffled languidly to a spot further down the hall, not seeming to notice the shards of lyrium that flew off the limb, scattering across the floor as it dropped the arm back down with a _crunch._

Samson had explained later that evening, that the behemoth – Renor – was stationed there less to keep Cullen in, and more to keep any curious souls out. The other Templars inhabiting the castle were ordered to not approach him if he did not approach them first, and the great beast of a man would make sure they didn’t try. At that assurance, Cullen had felt… _safer_. He enjoyed that those few others he had come across, whether they were Templar or servant, would give him a wide berth due to the monstrous creature trailing a few steps behind.

Renor’s company had quickly turned welcome in lieu of the sanctuary of his quiet room. Though the man did not, and could no longer speak, having him near, as he threaded through the broken hallways to explore the castle, was comforting.

With the behemoth ever present, Cullen had pulled on some boots, and wrapped himself in one of his wolves to walk in the snow that drifted down in sheets of white. It seemed like an age since he had felt the crisp wind on his cheeks and soft caress of snowflakes clinging to his eyelashes. It was cold, bitterly so, but he didn’t care. Each breath and each sting in his lungs made him feel a little more alive than the one before it. It was easy to stand there in the frozen courtyard, amongst the bare bone trees and close his eyes to the soft whistling that wove through the stone and mortar from the hills beyond.

He had prayed for death not long ago; part of him still did. Images of memories rubbed him raw behind his eyes, fusing with the age old torment of demons and lyrium. It was odd to feel the familiar pounding in his head after so many more aches and pains had overwhelmed it. But to feel it again, reminded Cullen of what he hadn’t lost. Even if the dreams played out in his sleep a little differently, even if they tasted like metallic water and stale bread, the horned woman still appeared to grasp his cheek and kiss him till he bent.

How masochistic it was, that of all things, it was the pain of old wounds which reminded Cullen that he was still alive.

Twice now others had tried to twist him till he snapped, and twice now he had endured; even if he had come out a little less whole each time. The cloth was ripped, the seams stretched wide, yet broken and tattered as it was, his tapestry endured. Old rends had been stitched back together crudely – ugly things that tore through the fabric, but the stiff thread had served its purpose well enough.

Cullen just wished he had a needle this time.

There was movement in the upper alcoves when he and Renor had later departed the snowy yard, but the figure was gone before the blond to catch who it was.

It appeared that Cullen’s worry about the other inhabitants of the fortress had been completely unfounded; the Templars stationed at the Emprise castle alongside their General had been nought but respectful.

Oh, for sure, they stared when he entered a room, turning from their meals or pausing the polish of their kit to glance at him from the corner of their eye. But instead of the anger, resentment, or sneers that shined with teeth, as he had expected, in their place was curiosity, a hint of awe, and perhaps even worse that he had feared – pity. They too remembered what he had once been, maybe even before the Inquisition for some.

But their pity was never announced, and their respect never half-hearted.

He saw Samson with them sometimes, when his duties hadn’t pulled him away to the chamber at the far end of the castle. What surprised Cullen, what made him pause in the edge of the doorway of the great hall to watch the General, is when he found Samson leaning over one of the long benches before a crumpled map, several knights gathered around him.

He spoke to each in turn, brows creased, and did not move to the next until the knight had nodded his or her understanding. When they spoke, he listened. When they put forward ideas, he considered. There was respect there. Esteem. And a memory of a man who had once clasped his hand to pull him to his feet under the sweltering heat of the Marcher sun.

As he watched Samson clap the shoulder of a man and shake him lightly with a wolfish grin, Cullen realised the most curious thing:

The Red General was a warlord with the hearts and minds of his men, not a tyrant who dominated with the strength of an iron fist.

He had wanted Samson to be that tyrant. It would have been easier to make sense of the lines that blurred the more he looked at them. Make a monster out of a man, and it would seem like justice to slay it.

Only, he could no longer fool himself into thinking that the man was anything of the sort. If Cullen was handed a knife, if he had the power to clutch it and strain his fist around the ivory handle, he knew that he could no longer press it into the hollow between Samson’s ribs.

And wasn’t that a small betrayal. One more to add to the pile that weighed upon his back.

Samson brought him a piece of parchment one day, whilst he sat curled in a cubby with a book from the meagre library in his lap and a page pinched between the tips of his fingers. He had asked the man, in one of their short morning conversations, about the comings and goings of the world outside their abiding winter fortress. He was given answers that didn’t sit well in his belly: ‘ _Adaar gaining influence amongst the nobles of Orlais,’ ‘Pentaghast sending out the Inquisition’s forces to gain further footholds in the north and west.’_ The Inquisition gained more power and more prestige every passing moment _without_ Cullen.

Then, the report had come, wordlessly handed to him as the dark haired man moved to brace his back against the worn edge of the nook in wait.

A funeral service had been held in remembrance of the life and duty of Ser Cullen Rutherford of Honnleath. The note went on to say that guests had gathered in Skyhold with many from the old Templar Order sending their kind sincerities to those friends and family that remained in his absence.

Cullen was faintly shaking by the time he came to the hastily scrawled signature of the one who had written the report. He didn’t shake in grief nor in loss, but in a subtle, cold _anger._

They thought he was dead.

Did they even bother to look? To find out if he still lived? Or was he just stamped as dead, and the pyre lit without a body? Even as the empty wood still burned, they had already retreated back into their finery to roll little metal markers between their fingers.

And what of his family? What of Mia? She now mourned the loss of a brother she hadn’t seen in years. Pain born out of a lie. _Fuck them._

_Fuck the blighted Inquisition._

\--

There were hands on his back, smoothing down his spine and pressing dagger-sharp nails into the dimples that sat either side of his tailbone. They didn’t dip into those intimate places, just trailed lazily, teasing over his muscled sides. His palms and knees ached where they pressed into the cobbled stone, dirty from the mud and grime that layered the floor.

The demon spoke with a man’s voice; smooth with a hint of gruffness. She told him in an Imperial twang, of the things she had done to him, was doing to him, and will do to him. _You like it,_ she whispered as she cupped his neck and pulled back so that his head arched into the cold skin of her shoulder and he could smell her rancid breath.

He tried to pull away, tell her ‘no,’ but his legs were locked by her own and she wrapped around him, stretching her tendrils like a creature of the deep.

_You’re lying._

_You liked it when my cock was inside you, pressing against that delightful spot. You moaned like a whore._

His muscles shivered and shook with the strain of the weight of her pressing down on his back, her large, calloused hands bruising on his hips.

“ _I didn’t. I didn’t_ ,” he croaked weakly, the pulsing heartbeat of lyrium flashing on his skin.

_You did._

_And you will do so again, the next time I have you._

Cullen awoke heaving, each breath split into chattering hitches. The dull glowing embers threw light, but not enough to chase the shadows back behind the furniture that seemed to stretch and stretch into the darkness of the rafters.

_Where was—was he…? No, no, no! He couldn’t be back there, he couldn’t—_

The blond twisted under the furs, blinking wildly in the dark. The light was sparse on the other side of the room, clinging to tips and edges, looking like the little glowing insects that inhabited the peaceful lagoons of Crestwood.

Cullen almost cried out in relief when he spotted the softened features of the man tucked into the other side of the mattress.

Samson’s nose was pressed into the pillow, letting the glow of the fireplace only touch half his face. He had not stirred at Cullen’s frenzy, the man was one of the deepest sleepers he had ever known. In Kirkwall he had slept through Cullen’s noisy nightmares, only waking when he had started to scream.

He mimicked the steady breaths that escaped the man, feeling the fear and panic that squeezed his throat recede with each one. He wasn’t in that place anymore, they could not touch him. He was _safe_.

Even when he calmed, and the dread that he had felt drained him, Cullen had trouble closing his eyes and letting himself drift off. That dream had been one of the more vivid ones of late. They were always similar, and all of them featured _him._

Cullen exhaled evenly through his nose, watching the light dance on the curve of Samson’s cheekbone. The man’s eyelids fluttered every so often and when he shuffled under the pelts, he sighed, releasing it through his teeth. This man looked different from his daytime counterpart who revelled in his callous brusqueness.

How simple it would be to slip his hand out from under the warmth to bridge the inches of gap between them; to smooth it over the sharp line of his jaw and feel the coarse brush of stubble against his fingertips. He wondered aloofly what it would be like to trail up his cheek, skirt along the edge of his brow and dip into the ever present crease between them.

Maker, it was tempting, so unbelievably tempting. He pushed his spidery fingers from beneath the covers hesitantly, and let them crawl along the fur to the cotton casing of Samson’s pillow where they paused, feeling the rush of hot breath roll over them. Just a light touch was all that was required, no more than to sate his curiosity and drive away the waking demons that clung to the coattails of his mind.

The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed under his index finger as he gently ran it down the arch of his throat. The skin was soft, slightly sweaty, but that was a given considering the combination of the man’s personal heat and the pelts piled on top of him. When Cullen’s fingernail clipped the cusp of his collarbone, Samson murmured sleepily, and the blond quickly pulled back to avoid disturbing the man further.

Only, the dark haired man followed him as he retreated, coiling an arm around Cullen’s waist and effortlessly pulling him forward until he was pressed flush against Samson’s chest. He murmured a few more unintelligible words before the man pressed his nose into the cleft of the blond’s neck and breathed in deeply, exhaling a rumble.

Cullen froze. He couldn’t move, even if he wished to. The arm was like iron around his back, pressing his own limbs tightly between the two men. Panic that had settled began to beat a tempo loud enough that it unlocked Cullen from his silent despair, allowing him to struggle. But it was of little use. Samson, even without the extra strength provided by the corrupted lyrium was far stronger than the blond he had smothered against him.

Cullen could do no more than kick his legs out, small noises of distress slipping from his lips.

Through the heavy haze of sleep, Samson distantly felt a modicum of movement. It called him back in waves, peeling back the layers of drowsiness until he could recognise that the legs writhing below the stitched furs weren’t his own, but belonged to the bed’s other occupant.

He blinked blearily, trying to ascertain the reason that Cullen insisted on kicking his legs and found the other man wild eyed and much closer than expected. He released the blond instantly, allowing the skinny man to roll away and weakly gasp, hand buried in the hair above his forehead.

Shit. _Shit._ Samson _knew_ something like this could happen. He had made sure to place himself as far away from the other man as he could to curb the possibility. The decision to sleep in the same bed was made in a moment of weakness, even if he had understood Cullen reasoning. He hadn’t agreed for that reason though, and now he had gone and tipped the precarious balance.

He had just wanted… he had wanted… Samson didn’t exactly know. When Cullen had been captured, the fury had demanded that he get the man out. Now that he was, Samson had just wanted Cullen to _stay._ With him. Wherever that was or ended up being.

The man was tattered, jumped at his own shadow as much as he had all those years ago, but Samson didn’t _care._ Cullen was Cullen, spindly or not. He wasn’t blind, nor was he a fool. He could see how much Amana and her rats had broken the man, even if they had never reaped a confession. He was quiet now; distant, and more times than not – lost in his own head.

Samson had watched him from the stairwell that overlooked courtyard as he had stood in the snow, baggy furs flapping in the wind. It was sometimes painful to look into his eyes and see a ghost more than a man staring back. His frail bird bones only added to the effect.

It would take time, but if it meant that Cullen remained, then by the Maker, or whoever that would would listen, Samson was willing to wait.

There had been progress. Cracks of the man’s old self had shown through, mainly prevalent in his bouts of anger and frustration. Since that report came, the blond had increasingly become more open, though he was far from chatty. He no longer pretended to sleep when Samson awoke to the frozen morning and pulled on his clothes to retreat to the washroom. Their conversations, however short and clinical they were, had become just a little longer. It wasn’t ideal, but it was something. Cullen needed to come on his own terms, and Samson, though not a patient man, was willing to be so. For him, he would.

Now, he had gone and fucked it up.

“Cullen,” he said, propping himself up on his elbows to rub at the sleep that clung to the corners of his eyes. “ _Shit.”_

The blond grit his teeth at the sound of his name, cutting off his gasps to breath heavily through flared nostrils. He didn’t answer Samson until his breathing had quietened, evening into something that resembled normalcy.

“It’s fine,” he gulped, tasting his lips.

It obviously wasn’t. Cullen got angsty whenever someone that wasn’t Samson, so much as stepped too close and even then the General was kept at an arm’s length.

He collapsed back into the depths of the padding, throwing an arm across his forehead. The ceiling was a mess of inky blackness. Stars didn’t poke through tonight, though they rarely did anyway. It seemed like Emprise du Lion was, at the best of times, in a constant blizzard no matter the season.

He felt like he should say something, anything to ease the tension that had settled over them. Samson cursed, he was never good at this sort of thing. Unfortunately, (or fortunately, depending on how you skinned the cat) neither was Cullen.

“I told you,” he started softly, “that I killed Amana. I did. Her men died along with her, Cullen. They’re gone, all of them.”

Silence dragged like a great lumbering beast. The embers that had begun to quieten, did so now in earnest, taking what little light they had with them. Colour retreated from the chamber almost entirely, leaving the furniture to the mercy of simple shades.

“Not all of them,” Cullen whispered by his side.

Red; raw and familiar built in the space behind his eyes. “They’re the one who started it, weren’t they?”

“Yes.”

His blood thrummed now, hissing in his ears as it clawed through his veins. Somewhere far off, Samson heard a storm gathering.

“Give me a name,” he seethed.

It was whispered with such spite, such malice, that Samson could have mistaken the voice for his own.

“ _Crenus_.”


	5. Chapter 5

The manor in Solas was modest. Not overly big, but certainly large enough to house several servants (well, _slaves_ ) as well as a wealth of finely crafted furniture such as the various low tables, plush chaises, and tall bookcases that lined the wall across from the grand fireplace. The stone mantle, intricately carved with dragons and warriors of the Imperium, took up half the wall alone. It must have cost the equivalent of half the house; a rather pointless waste in his opinion, but Samson had never been particularly well versed in the trivial tastes of nobility. The powdery wood within had been lit and the room was now almost stuffy with the amount of sopping wet Knights gathered in it, the rain slowly drying off their amour only to stick to their brows and mingle with the sweat.

Their General sat back on one of the opulent chairs, patiently waiting for the return of the manor’s master. It almost felt as if he was seated in a Healer’s clinic amongst a sea of patiently droll faces. The other Templars were for the most part quiet – staring off into space, or cleaning the water and grime from their weapons. Those that did speak only did so in hushed tones, no more than incoherent mumbles that could be blocked out with ease.

Truthfully, he hadn’t wanted to leave Cullen alone in Emprise, but the man had assured Samson he would be fine. It wasn’t exactly his safety that concerned him, more than it was his mind. There would be no one to look for when he awoke from his nightmares, nor was there anyone to keep him talking, keep him open, so that he didn’t fall prey to the things in his head.

Renor would keep the blond company at least, there was no doubt about that. Before he left, he had pulled the giant lumbering man off to the side and told him that he appreciated the effort the behemoth had put into his duties. With a final askance that he keep Cullen safe, Samson had left – a contingent of loyal knights trailing behind him. The knowledge that Renor would die before he let the other man fall, sat comfortably in his gut.

The fact he was sitting in this room at all was the fruit of both Samson and Cullen’s efforts. Though he could see how uneasy it made the blond, it had been Cullen to square his shoulders and soldier on, telling Samson all he knew about this ‘Crenus.’ With the resources granted to the General it hadn’t been overly difficult to find the man, even if he had taken steps to distance himself from his absent mistress. They had found him to be in the city of Solas, Tevinter, occupying the manor belonging to the house of Omanis, a lesser, irrelevant strain of nobility.

And now here the Red General was, awaiting the man’s return from a soiree, two weeks later.

A good thing that the hunt for the man hadn’t taken as long as his search for Cullen. Their originally intended short time in Emprise du Lion was almost at an end, before they were to be recalled back to the arid sands of the west. Samson had, had to tell the others in command that he was taking the extra time to secure his ranks; something which wasn’t exactly untrue. The red lyrium had taken hold of the snowy cliffs as ordered, though he had done his best to kept Cullen away from the bulk of the veins that had sprung up around the outer edges of the fortress and jutted out of the rocky crags. A few more of the Templars had agreed to the valiant sacrifice of accepting more of the lyrium within themselves, so their forces now stood stronger. It was a painful thing to watch – loyal men and women writhing in their cots as they were burned from the inside out, but one that was necessary. Samson would do his utmost to ensure that their sacrifice for the true Templar Order would not be in vain.

He knew that pain, the seemingly endless fire that charred the very marrow in the bones. For three days he had burned; howled until his throat was raw and his voice turned to glass. Yet, he had endured, and come out stronger for it – as had they.

With the sound of a door opening and a murmur of voices at the end of the hall, and Samson sat up a little further in the cushions, pulling at the cuffs of his armour. It was almost eerie – the way the shards fused into the armour threw light. Coupled with the flames dancing across the bookshelves, every inhabitant of the room gave the impression of a creature from the deep, their shadows more monstrous than even they. Exactly the effect the Red General wanted to give.

“Master,” came the muffled voice of one of the maids.

“What it is, girl? Can’t you see I am tired?” The man’s voice was smooth; noble. Just the sort that acted far above his station, if only to pick at the scraps the fell on the floor from the table of the true nobility. In another, more simple word – irritating. Samson hadn’t even seen the man’s face yet.

“You have a guest—uh, _guests_ waiting for you in the lounge, sir.”

“Guests? I was not…” the voice dropped to a muttering buzz, unintelligible from the roar of the fire.

Samson breathed deep, taking in the scent of sweat, rain, and the low fragrance of lavender, threaded with a hint of vanilla. The smile pulling at his lips was involuntary, though he did nothing to stop it. A cold burn had settled over him, pleasurable in the way it tweaked the call for vengeance situated somewhere in the left part of his chest.

The sound of footsteps rang hollow throughout the hall. Whether they were solemn or not, Samson couldn’t accurately say. Perhaps his own hope that they were made him biased on principle. They came to a sudden halt as the man rounded the corner and saw the state of his parlour.

Samson wanted nothing more than to disembowel the Vint immediately.

Crenus was a heavyset man; the coil of muscle in his neck and shoulders said he was once a warrior, though, judging from his expansive waistline, that no longer held true. He moved with the same smoothness that showed in his voice – a false politeness that was only skin deep.

“General Samson,” he began, scratching his fingers at the salt and pepper beard that lined his jaw. “Apologies that I could not be home sooner. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Samson ignored the man’s grating attempt at manners. Much more satisfying to get to the point and watch if he could squirm. “This is a fancy nest you got here, Omanis. Your family know you’re holed up here like a rat?”

Crenus’ brow twitched at the jab, but he drew further into the room to settle into one of the only chairs that hadn’t been taken by a hulking Red Knight.

“Impossible, since they are dead,” he said, gliding a hand over the fine metal cuff that adorned one of his wrists. “But I’m not sure I catch your meaning, General.”

Samson rolled his jaw, nodding as he pursed his lips in faint amusement. Of course he didn’t. Samson had covered his tracks far too well for that. All traces that connected the Red Templars were the ones responsible for the slaughter at Amana’s castle had been removed. Wouldn’t look good to be seen killing your allies, after all. Not matter how worthless they may have been.

“Your mistress is dead, ain’t she? A pity. She was your only way up.”

“So it wasyou,” Crenus snorted, leaning back and clutching the thin handles of his chair. “I had my suspicions of course, one cannot keep a prize like the Inquisition’s Commander and not gain attention. Amana should have listened.”

A prize. A _prize._ Was that was Cullen was to the man? A thing to be won? A caged creature to be displayed at parties? The cold burn began to spark and Samson smelt smoke. The amusement he felt fled in a flash taking all his proclivities toward civility with it. The fact that the man was still breathing in his tight-laced tunic was because of the promise he had made to Cullen.

“So Commander Cullen obviously lives since you have arrived here,” Crenus continued, “may I ask why? I was of the understanding that he was your enemy.”

“We protect our own.” Samson ground out the reply, feeling a rumble in his throat.

An understanding seemed to pass over Crenus’ face, and he looked around to the Templars gathered in his room. There was not a friendly face staring back. The very least that was offered was no more than cold indifference. Others ranged from resentment to open hostility. Not all of them may have cared for Cullen as Samson did, but they at least recognised his part in the brotherhood of the Order; ex-templar or not.

By the time the Tevinter man returned his gaze to the General, he had recognised his fate.

“So you have come to kill me. I’m flattered you bought so many with you,” he said with a tilt of his head. “Does the Elder One know you’re here, murdering one of your allies? Perhaps not. Perhaps he thought you a loyal dog, instead of the mangy wolf you are.”

There was a whine of leather as several of the knights unsheathed the swords from their scabbards. Samson held a hand up to ward them off as he pushed himself to his feet. He felt light in his armour without the comfortable weight of his greatsword, but he hadn’t trusted himself to bring it. There was the possibility that killing the man outright would be all too tempting. A good call of judgement in retrospect.

“Remember that this _‘mangy wolf’_ still has teeth, you piece of shit,” he growled, stalking toward the man. Crenus, to his credit, seemed outwardly calm. But under it all, held within the curling of his fingers and the press of his jaw was something that made Samson want to sing.

“Evidently,” Omanis countered, his patience cracking. “Get on with it then. I’m no fool. If you have come to kill me, then kill me and be done with it.”

“Oh, no,” Samson said, grinning. “ _I’m_ not the one who is going to spill your blood, Omanis. But I know someone who might.”

\--

 

From his cubby that looked out onto the white rolling hills and peaked mountains of Emprise, Cullen heard the whine of the portcullis being raised. Even from a distance the chains thundered in their brackets, drawing him from his sanctuary of propped cushions and furs. He left his book, read and re-read, amongst the comfort and shucked on the fur coat that lay camouflaged on the backs of its brethren.

Samson had returned.

Cullen trailed through the long, winding halls. His mind was muted; caught somewhere between trepidation and a prickly sense of… _excitement._ Even with their fast-paced travel, it had still been a month since Samson’s departure and the days had dragged.

The times he awoke in the night, the man’s body absent from the bed, had been admittedly hard. It had taken longer for Cullen to come back to himself and push the purple, scaled hands from his mind. There wasn’t a reminder there anymore, and the shadows had responded by becoming longer; evolving into bodies and faces. He had yelled at them from under his breath, saying anything to cow them and make them slink back. Whether or not it worked matter little, he still buried himself deeper into the soft pallet to shut his eyes and bare his teeth in a snarl.

It wasn’t until Samson’s heat was gone, that Cullen realised how much he had come to depend on it. The fire only provided a little warmth and the wolves piled on top of him only kept his in. The man had been a furnace unto himself. Even pressed away from Cullen’s body, he had provided the blond with all the heat required, never leaving him wanting. Maker, even after that night he had told Samson of Crenus, he had wanted to draw closer again and curl into that warmth. He didn’t blame the General for his reaction to Cullen’s admittedly invasive touch: it had been no fault of his own, after all. His curiosity was the one in the wrong. Still, had Cullen the chance again…

He pulled his wolf pelt closer around himself; tight and protecting as the made his way down to the fortress’ lower rooms. They would be waiting for him down there. _He_ would be waiting for him down there. Part of him hoped, dearly, _irrationally_ hoped, that Samson hadn’t kept his promise. That Cullen would walk into the room and find only the man’s head sitting pale and black-tongued on a table. It would not be able to speak, and he would never again hear that smooth, noble voice.

When he was taken from Amana’s castle, Cullen thought himself rid of the man. Though he wasn’t dead, the distance between would decay the connection. Only, it didn’t. He was still chained. Not his wrists, but his mind—like a man tied to a thundering horse. He knew, that if he continued to drag, it may kill him. The threads of the rended tapestry would continue to unwind until Cullen was left with hands full of thread. Through all he had endured, all he had been through, he had realised something:

He didn’t _want_ to die.

Yet, if Crenus remained, he _would._

By his own hand, or circumstance; it mattered little. The outcome was the same. 

Some of the returned Red Templars were already gathered in the foyer – dusting the snow from their boots. Cullen barely needed to raise his hand before he was pointed to a room further down the hall, to the right. Another passage on the left would have lead the blond right to the door, had he come from his quarters. That did little to settle him.

The floor was scuffed, like a large load had been hauled through it. He followed the trail to its destination, pausing at the door to catch his breath. Sounds could be heard inside: the rattle of chains, and low rumbling murmur that couldn’t have been anyone other than Samson.

This was it.

Cullen pressed a hand to the door, but didn’t go any further. The old, cracked wood was rough under his fingertips. There was no going back, if there had ever been. Crenus would die today, but it was _how_ that was the burden. And he would watch the life leave the man when he did. What if… what if this feeling, this _stone_ that weighed in his gut and made his bones creak, didn’t leave? Cullen had to believe that it would, but what if it didn’t? That thought terrified him.

He swallowed heavily, hissing the breath out between his teeth, and _pushed._

Samson was out of his armour, looking only a little less imposing as he stalked behind the man chained to the chair. He could have been dressed in finery once, but the mud and grime discoloured the cloth, ruining the lace that bordered the cuffs and lapels. The man’s face was as dirty as the rest of him, but he was still utterly recognisable in his sallow skin and puffy eyes.

Both men seemed to notice Cullen’s presence at the same time. Samson stopped dead in his pacing; the dagger that had been twirling around his fingers like a gambler’s coin rolled into his palm, thumb to the hilt. Crenus glanced up at him through a curtain of sweat-slick hair, and smiled. Even in his position, chained like a dog, the man still had the gall to _smile._

“You look better,” he croaked, and Cullen felt his pulse quicken. Crenus sounded like someone had run his throat through gravel, fraying the edges until little of the previous smoothness remained. The blond wanted to sigh in relief.

“Shut _up,_ ” Samson growled, quickly stepping up to the man’s side. Cullen took a few of his own steps closer, but halted a way off. Though the General brandished his dagger, he didn’t try to swipe at the man. He was waiting for something – waiting for Cullen. If Cullen did anything: raised his hand or tilted his head, he knew Samson wouldn’t hesitate to slit the man’s throat and be done with it. Samson may have held off and brought Crenus to him, but it was plain to see that he was barely restraining himself from killing the Tevinter. He would gladly do it, so Cullen wouldn’t have to. However altruistic that was, the blond didn’t know, but he nevertheless he felt a spike of affection.

But, no. _No._ That felt too good. Too easy.

“You did a better job that I did, General.” Crenus’ laugh was hitched and wobbly, but it still threatened a shiver down Cullen’s spine.

With a snarl, Samson plunged his dagger into the large man’s shoulder, ripping a cry from his throat. He jerked around the blade, letting it sink deeper in the flesh and staining the tunic a dark crimson.

“Samson, _stop,_ ” Cullen said, his newly found voice firm; an echo of its old command. Samson almost looked as if he would disobey, but at the last second he wrenched the dagger free, gazing at Cullen unwaveringly. Crenus yelped at the pull, quietening as he warily inspected the wound that spread its colour further across his chest.

“Give me the blade,” Cullen all but whispered, freeing a hand from the confines of his pelt. The General looked to his fingers silently, but questioning. Even still, he held his palm up the other man. They had not healed fully, but he didn’t care. In that moment, his tormentor bleeding before him, Cullen didn’t fucking _care._

As the dagger was deposited in his outstretched hand, his digits curled around the hilt until the worn smoothness of the leather wrapping could be felt along the length of each one. Maker, they _burned,_ but they heeded his command to become a fist. He clutched them tighter, clutched them till they shook, just to feel the searing agony and take strength from it.

A haze descended as Cullen stepped forward. With each step he sank deeper into water until it filled his ears. Dagger in his burning hand, he felt like a priest stepping down a long, dark hall toward an altar. The God waiting at the end demanded retribution, _vengeance_ for a death. It didn’t need to push as it shadowed each step.

_No going back._

Back to what?

Cullen couldn’t remember.

He had heard of an Avvar ritual once; something they would do to please their mountain God. It had been told to him and others in hushed breaths within the depths of a tower. The story had been designed to scare and disgust more than anything; whispered by a recruit who almost had his shield within grasp.

When the Avvar had been wronged, and their enemies captured, they would take them into the depths of a forest, somewhere in sight of a mountain. They would be placed in a circle, and a boar—the largest that could be found—would be dragged into the middle. The throats of the captured men would be cut, their blood running rivers over the ground as the boar, tied down, but still squealing, would be drenched in it. Only then, would the specific soul who had been wronged (if there was such a figure), walk into the middle and gut the boar while it still breathed, spilling its entrails through the lines of thick, greasy fat.

All the bodies would be left like meat to cool in the snow, unburied and unburnt. The wolves that roamed the forest would not go hungry that night.

The purpose of the ritual had never been explained, but the story had nevertheless done its duty in making the recruits retch.

He had thought them heathens then, but now, as he pushed the tip of the blade against the man’s belly, he thought perhaps there was something to it.

He leaned in slowly, watching Crenus’ face as the dagger pushed; cutting through the layers of cloth and sinking into the supple flesh. His lips twisted in pain, wheezing each struggled pant. He spluttered and hissed at the blond, no longer able to form words through the agony.

And yet, within the depths of his eyes, underneath all the false bravado in the face of death, was _fear._

It stripped Cullen’s mouth dry and set forth warm to pool heavily in his gut. He felt more than commanded the tilting and pulling of his lips, till just a _hint_ of teeth were bared to the man before him.

Fire extended up his arm as he shifted and pushed _up._ Pulling, and pushing the blade like a saw until his hands were hot and slick. Up it went till it caught on cartilage and muscle, but still Cullen worked it till it relented. By the time it stuck fast his diaphragm, Crenus was dead.

Cullen ripped the dagger free, letting it clatter to the ground – its use spent. Blood drenched his hands and stained his front, but it didn’t matter as he stood and panted with exertion. The pain didn’t matter. The needles slicing through his joints didn’t _matter_. He felt…

_Free._

With the last breath, it was gone. All of it was gone. At last the chains that made his feet drag were _gone,_ and Cullen felt like he could breathe for the first time in an age.

He felt eyes heavy on his cheek, and he jerked his head toward where Samson stood, only just remembering again that the chamber had another inhabitant. He looked at Cullen warily, eyes wide, as his hands went through the slow motions of clenching and unclenching. Cullen surged forward, uncaring, as his lips crashed into Samson’s and his blood-soaked hands pressed at the man’s cheeks and threaded into his hair. The dark haired man returned the kiss without pause or hesitation, taking everything Cullen allowed. His teeth were harsh, his tongue was searing, and the blond _relished_ in it.

When he tugged on a wrist, Samson followed through the door and through the halls. Their kisses and breaths were hurried and rough; each one spiced with an inkling of desperation. The other man pulled him with just as much force, lifting Cullen up at times to make the journey faster. The blond let him, far too preoccupied with tasting Samson’s jaw and nipping at the skin.

The door to their quarters screeched back on its hinges, loudly thumping against the wall as they burst through. Maker, the stained fur was too hot, and his clothes far too heavy. He needed to feel the raw friction of Samson’s skin on his own. Needed to press his lips and taste the sting of sweat caught on the man’s collarbone.

He pushed the pelt off in a rush, the tunic following shortly after. The ties of Samson’s shirt proved a little more foolhardy, but they worked the knots together, ignoring the ache in his fingers. The blood made the digits slide around the cords, still wet though rapidly drying. Cullen ignored that too, tugging until they relented and pushing at the tunic as Samson pulled. He walked them forward until the other man’s legs pressed against the mattress and he fell back, dragging the blond on top of him.

Cullen shucked off his own breeches as he turned on Samson’s, still plucking kisses from the man’s lips. With the lack of fabric between them, Samson grasped their freed cocks as Cullen straddled his thighs, leaning down and pressing his still meagre weight upon the older man so he had better access to his tongue. Samson took the burden without complaint, working his calloused hand languidly. Still, it was too much friction, too raw and it made Cullen hiss.

“Spit. Too much. Needs saliva,” he bit out between hitching breaths. He felt Samson nod against his forehead and he drew back an inch to spit into his hand before moving it back down as pushed his nose under Cullen’s jaw to breathe deep. Cullen moaned at the sensation of the new slickness and the feeling of the man’s hot breath against his neck as teeth sucked at the exposed skin.

 _This_ was what he was supposed to feel. _This_ was what he had longed to feel.

He had held himself back from the other man in fear that it would be the same as those who had mounted and used him. The fact that it didn’t made Cullen want to howl and delight in the pleasure that raced under the surface of his skin. Instead he wrapped a hand around Samson’s fist and pumped with him; twisting and pressing the tip of his thumb to the slits that had begun to bead with precome. His reply was choked huff vibrating against his throat, followed by a stuttering flutter of eyelashes that brushed the line of his jaw.

“Maker’s balls, Cullen,” Samson gasped, a sound which Cullen readily echoed as he ground his hips down.

Their franticness slowed as both men became lost in the feeling of their hands working together. Cullen let the waves of pleasure wash over him as he buried his face into Samson’s temple, stirring the feathery strands of hair. Woodsmoke and sword oil filled his nose when he breathed and his bones suddenly felt weak in their sockets. It was all too much. His senses felt overwhelmed as they rocked together. A few more pumps had him spilling into Samson’s fist and gasping into his hair.

 “Sam. _Sam.”_ His breathy calls were all it took before the other man released as well, groaning Cullen’s name into his neck.

The blond all but collapsed, his shaking arm no longer able to hold him up. Exhaustion quickly set in as the aftershocks wandered. They left him feeling boneless, yet pleased. There was a wet press of lips to the curve of his collar – a brand of affection. He leaned into it with a delighted hum; tired and spent. His limbs weighed heavily, and it was far too tempting to just give in and let himself be pulled down into the dark. Cullen almost fell asleep before he felt a tap from the hand at his hip, and he rolled off Samson blearily, letting the other man breathe without a weight on his chest.

“Come back ‘ere,” Samson urged, tugging the furs out from underneath them and throwing them on top. A shudder reminded Cullen that he was bare in a room with holes in the roof, which consequently was within a fortress located in a constantly frozen mountain range. He rolled back into the other man’s heat quickly, pressing as close as physically possible. Yet, even that didn’t feel like enough.

“You tryin’ to crawl into my skin or something?” Samson asked with a chuckle.

“Hmm, you’re warm,” Cullen countered. The heat seemed to roll off the General in waves. “And it’s cold.”

“Well, you probably don’t make much heat, anyhow.”

The blond grunted his agreement, and closed his eyes to the pleasant comfort of being surrounded by the press of his wolves from all sides. It no longer felt restricting, he no longer felt caged. And Maker, wasn’t that something.

It was over.

His nightmares would no doubt still haunt him, but the waking one was finally at an end. Cullen hoped he would never tire of this feeling.

“You know,” Samson rumbled through the haze of sleep, “’probably an odd time to mention it, but I’ve liked you wearing my things.”

Cullen opened one of his eyes to stare at the man, a brow quirked. “Is that so?”

Samson hummed. “They hang on you a bit, though.”

Well, the blond could hardly help that fact. He was better than he was even a month ago, but like many things, recovery was a process.

Cullen pressed his face into the pillow, muffling his reply to the man. “I ripped one of the shirts. Sorry.”

“S’okay, I’ll find a needle somewhere ‘round his bloody castle. I’m no stranger to stitching up torn things. ‘Had to learn to do it myself for a long time,” Samson said, making Cullen chortle.

“Something funny?”

Cullen shook his head, smiling. “It’s nothing.”

\--

Things moved quickly after Crenus’ death.

The call to return west became louder each day, loud enough that Samson could resist it less and less. They would need to move soon, or else the General would quickly have a nine foot darkspawn magister breathing down his neck. Something he would rather avoid.

Cullen picked up his sword again, whether or not his hands had fully healed to allow it, Samson didn’t think the man cared. He had become more open – spoke more, _did_ more, and it was plain to see that the Red Templars had become closer to him in return. Their respect soon became words, something only previously chained to action. Cullen no longer looked at them with wariness or trepidation, they became his men, even if at the same time they weren't.

One night, when the man had found his bed empty well past the time Samson would usually return to warm it, Cullen had come looking for him. He had found the General braced against his war table, a frown on his lips, and an Inquisition marker pinched tight between his fingers. Cullen had looked at the map for a while; tracing his eyes over the drawn rivers and lakes, not returning Samson’s long stare. Then, silently and gently, he had taken the little marker from the General’s hand and placed it in an empty space – far removed from anywhere that had been expected. Cullen then took another, and another; shifting Samson’s guesses and removing the uncertainties. Only when he had finished, and the full board was set out before them, did the other man return his stare. Samson didn’t say anything, only kissed him.

Soon after that, his fingers were gentle once again. As Samson pushed a philtre to his lips, the liquid within a glowing, bloody red, Cullen had wrapped his digits around the vial and took it away. With steady hands, he had pressed it against his own lips and tipped it back – draining the philtre of every last drop. It had been Cullen that kissed him that time.

Then finally, when the Red Templars had left their castle in Emprise du Lion, Cullen had left with them – walking unwaveringly at Samson’s side.


	6. Epilogue

They had prepared for the march to Mythal’s temple, but without Cullen, it didn’t feel the same.

The Commander’s loss had been felt at every level of the Inquisition, yet infinitely moreso in the Inner Circle. Josephine had been nigh but inconsolable for days after they had bought the news back to Skyhold. Dorian, Varric, Bull, and Blackwall had immediately retreated to the tavern to drink the night away as well as the following morning. Adaar had joined them not long after; once he had dragged himself into his quarters, only to find a chessboard sitting on his desk, it’s pieces scattered on the floor by the wind that rattled the glass windows.

Leliana, Cassandra and Vivienne’s resolves had only hardened, whilst others such as Sera and Solas had retreated to their quarters. The latter evidently handling the situation better than the former.

None of them could stand to be around Cole, not until he understood the pain his words caused. Adaar had visited the boy to see how he was doing, but all he had gotten in return were words that had made his heart ache and his horns far too heavy for his head.

_Dark and cold, dank and grime. Please, Maker, somebody save me. Please anyone, **save me**._

The guilt had been almost painful as it weighed on his shoulders ever since.

They had searched; stars above, they had searched _everywhere_ since the alarm had sounded at their men’s slaughter and Cullen’s disappearance. Leliana had made sure to keep the Inquisition’s frantic hunt as quiet as possible, least the enemy catch wind and kill the Commander before they could get to him.

But it hadn’t been enough. They had been too late.

After weeks of sniffing out the tail ends of leads that came to nothing, and rumours that went nowhere, they had stormed the castle held by the Venatori named Amana only to find destruction and ruin. Decayed bodies lay strewn about, the maggots well and truly set into the flesh. Even at Varric’s weary sigh, Adaar had thundered forward, looking for any signs that Cullen could still be alive _somehow._

Down to the dungeons they had went: nothing. Up through the great hall and past the kitchens: nothing. Only more Venatori bodies. At last they had ascended to the upper quarters. The hallway was trashed – furniture flung around the place, and vases lay shattered on the ground. The only body to be found up there was of a woman. They had found her face down on the floorboards, but judging by the dried gore that still swung from the rafters, it looked as if she had been strung up by her entrails whilst they were still inside her. Even Cassandra had gagged at the sight.

As to who would do such a thing, they had no idea. There were no signs, nor any indication of a large force. It was as if the Venatori had been slaughtered by ghosts.

“The Avvar,” Cassandra had suggested, looking to the hills. On the journey through the mountains, a few days march from the crest the broken fortress stood on, they had come across some of the hillsmen. The painted warriors had spat and raged about lowlanders in their territory; hissing of magic bearers to the south. For all intents and purposes, it could have very well been the Avvar who stormed the castle and killed those who dared to cross their lands. However much Adaar didn’t want to consider the possibility.

Still, with no body belonging to Cullen, they had an inkling of hope.

That was, until Solas had called them outside.

They had found him in the yard behind the kitchens; an open shed on one side, a fresh looking grave on the other. His face was etched with sadness as he pointed toward the door, and Adaar had immediately felt his stomach bottom out. They followed him to inspect the contents, and what they found within pulled like a weight around the Qunari’s neck:

Templar armour – slightly rusted from exposure. Before it sat a sword, behind it – an Inquisition shield, the great eye now turned a brick red. Across the bench, amongst tools and empty sacks was a feathered mantle, damp and ragged.

Varric had sniffed and shook his head. “Damn it, Curly…” His voice choked as he spent the words.

The mounded grave awaited them outside and they had paused before it, gathered around the toiled earth was an altar.

“We have to check,” Adaar had felt himself say. None had disagreed.

Even if he had hoped otherwise, a body had been thrown in the pit. It was a man’s – dressed in ratty clothes, but the same height and weight as Cullen. Shallow cuts litter the pale, exposed skin, though some gouged deeply around his wrists and ankles. Perhaps worst of all was that the head had been removed, and in its place sat a dirt scuffed helm, beaten and moulded into the shape of a lion’s head.

There was no longer any doubt.

Adaar hadn’t had to write many letters in his life, but the one to Mia had been the hardest.

After the painful funeral at Skyhold, Cassandra had assumed to mantle of Commander. Adaar could think of no one better to replace Cullen, however much it pained him that he should have to do so. They had moved with a vengeance then, gathering favour, and striking down any that moved against them.

Finally, with the help of Morrigan, they had found that Corypheus planned to use the power that rested in the Arbor Wilds: the Temple of Mythal.

It had not been easy to gather the resources necessary to strike. The red Templars had been hitting them hard as of late, seemingly one step ahead. Leliana’s agents whispered of a new leader amongst the ranks – formidable, and utterly ruthless against Inquisition forces. Who this person was, they didn’t know. It appeared that Samson kept them close, though the thought of the man keeping anyone close was a surprising one. All they knew was that whomever it was appeared to wear similar armour to the General, and have similar power to him as well. That had set everyone on edge. Even if they somehow managed to destroy Samson’s armour and take him down, it seemed this _other_ could simply replace him and carry on. Something which could prove disastrous. Even more so if the Inquisition were to meet both of them in battle.

As the time until their assault on the Arbor Wilds came closer, it in turn, became more and more of a possibility.

They could do nothing but grin and bear it, however. Whatever came, they would have to face it.

“Move _forward,”_ Adaar urged, cleaving the arm from one of the Red Templars in a solid swing. The race to the inner temple was on. Samson and his men had been seen moving toward the temple proper as the vicious battle outside raged on. They had moved as quickly as they could: shooting, swinging, and cleaving their way through enemies to stop them from gaining more ground. The Red General and his knights were devilishly quick, and before Adaar and his party had downed the enemy, more of them had already moved on.

He rounded the corner in a sprint, the others hot on the Qunari man’s heels. Samson could be seen at the end of the far bridge, his men moving into the final part of the temple.

“ _Samson!”_ Adaar boomed, drawing his sword, ready to stalk toward the Red Templar.

The man that stepped up beside Samson made him stop, and Adaar’s blood ran cold in his veins.

A forlorn moan and a gasp sounded behind the Inquisitor, but he hardly heard it. His heart thundered in his ears, howling and crashing as he took in the figure layered in black plate etched with expertly carved lyrium. His brow was pulled low, exacerbating thinned cheeks and a hollowed throat. He looked different – harder, callous and brutal, but there was no doubt as to who it was.

Beside Samson, his eyes raw and his twin swords raised high, stood a dead man.

 

 

_Sors salutis et virtutis michi nunc contraria, est affectus et defectus semper in angaria._

_\--_

_Fate, in health and in virtue, is now against me; affected and defective, always in torment._

FIN.

**Author's Note:**

> http://theon-stark.tumblr.com


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